Brad Peters

Julio... those powerful hairy legs

Bill Burns

Bill Cable

Pump house gang

Eine sanduhr, a sand clock

Imagine reaching for an hourglass and turning it over, reversing the flow. Over the next few years I will post some of my favourite old images that I've collected. Some were easily found on the net, others were more difficult, still others I lost to reformats or forgetfulness. First, some of Ralph Pfundstein.

To begin: I feel a gap

It's been a Death in Venice day. It was like I was on the railing with the boys, waving and feeling my age like the man Aschenbach sees on the ship's deck...

And then , among a crowd of young Poles who are crossing,

is a ghastly fellow, whom Aschenbach sees is an old man dressed

up as young, who capers unsuspected among the youths, drinks

hilariously with them, and falls hideously drunk at last on the deck,

reaching to the author, and slobbering about " dem allerliebsten,

dem schonsten Liebchen." Suddenly the upper plate of his false

teeth falls on his underlip...

Well, I don't have false teeth, but I am 45, swimming against a current. The map is already written on my face - I see it everyday in the mirror.

Unlike Aschenbach's acquaintance, the golden youth was never a fantasy of mine. Dark-eyed hairy men are the draw and always have been. Something smoulders in them that cannot be pulled off by a washed-out blond. On a blond man it just looks coy or forced.

My case in point: Need I say more?

Competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry supplement indeed, but I fear the best that is to be had, as Charles Lamb said.

Just one picture to establish my incognito self. Now, we can get on with the blog.